


Four-Letter Words

by ceresilupin



Category: General Hospital
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, pre-incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceresilupin/pseuds/ceresilupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ric has been missing for two days, and Sonny finds him. Almost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four-Letter Words

Ric's stomach hurts, but not as much as his head, and he is so very, very amused to find Sonny in the middle of the room, his back turned, apparently lost in thought. Completely unaware.

It's like he's fourteen again and sneaking in after curfew -- Ric tiptoes forward and then puts the nozzle of his nice, shiny, police-issue gun against the back of Sonny's neck. Sonny stiffens immediately, putting his hands up and snapping, "Who's there?"

Ric begins to laugh hysterically. _So -- damn -- **funny.**_

Sonny turns his head slightly to the side so he can look at Ric. _"Ric?"_ he demands, his expression perfect in its surprise. "What is it this time, Ric," he demands (Ric loves the way that Sonny says his name, like it's something that needs to get out of his mouth right now). "I can't keep track of your stupid grudges anymore."

It takes Ric a minute to remember. "Actually," he says, deeply amused. "I have no idea. I was in the area on investigation -- totally unrelated to you, by the way, a run-of-the-mill call from a run-of-the-mill citizen about suspicious activity in her backyard, her little dog, Fluffy, was carrying on you know -- and one of your thugs decided he should knock me out."

Sonny's turned all the way around now, and his quick, dark eyes flick up to Ric's hairline. Ric can feel the trickle of blood and knows he's bleeding again.

"And then they locked me in here," Ric adds. "And then they forgot about me." He presses his gun to Sonny's throat, enjoying the way his brother twitches slightly. Sonny doesn't, of course, swallow in dread or anything.

"Or maybe they didn't," Ric says, continuing his monologue without a hint of concern or fear. His head really, really hurts. He feels a little crazy, maybe, and if he's honest, he knows it's the head trauma speaking. "Maybe you asked them to."

Sonny blinks a few times. "I didn't even know you were in here," he says finally. "You've been missing for two days."

"Fascinating," Ric says sarcastically. "I've been awake the entire time. You're not supposed to sleep with a concussion."

"You have a concussion," Sonny states. It's actually a question; how sad is it that Ric knows him well enough to tell the difference?

"Yes," Ric says, trying hard not to laugh again. "It hurts like hell."

Sonny stares at him for a long time, and again, the silence stretches, and Ric really dislikes this silence, he's had nothing but silence for days now, and he thinks he might kill to get a little coversation, maybe even Alexis's rambly speeches that don't make sense. Sonny winces and Ric realizes that was out loud.

"Alexis thought you were dead, you know," Sonny says conversationally, like his estranged little brother doesn't have a gun at his throat. "Blamed me. Made a big speech, production -- accused me of taking you out so I could 'rule unmitigated as the crime king of Port Charles' --"

Ric laughs and laughs and laughs. Sonny keeps staring at him. Finally, Ric manages to ask, "And what did you think?"

"Faith," Sonny says flatly. "Or Alcazar."

"What the hell," Ric says, still breathless with amusement, "why the hell would Faith or Alcazar come after me? They'd pay me off, I'd double-cross them, no one would be -- would be suprised." Suddenly, for no reason at all, Ric remembers fucking Faith on the floor of his office and feels ill, and then it's like it's happening again. She's pressing up against him, her smooth, slick skin, and her dead, eerie eyes. Ric always finds Faith disconcernting. She'd be beautiful if she didn't look like a corpse.

"Ric," Sonny interrupts. "You're rambling."

"Sorry," Ric says insincerely, adjusting his grip on his gun. "Where was I?"

"You'd just decided to put your gun down," Sonny lies blandly. Ric laughs again and Sonny looks pissed, like he'd thought it would work.

"Do you know," Ric says, feeling dizzy, "do you know, I think that if you asked me to, I probably would? Put it down, you know, all you have to do is ask, you know. Shit." Ric wavers and almost falls because the world is dipping and spinning around him but his gun doesn't move an inch.

"That so," Sonny says, glaring at him hard. "Ric, you're delirous. Please put the gun down."

It doesn't work. "You don't mean it," Ric says. "I mean, really ask."

Sonny looks pissed off again.

"If it's not too much, you know," Ric stammers, "with the pride and all. Or maybe it's just sheer stubborn determination, I haven't -- haven't figured it out. Do you know why I hated you?"

"Hated," Sonny repeats, and doesn't have to ask about the past tense. "No."

"You were such a little demon." Sonny jerks a little, surprised, and Ric laughs. "Not that I ever knew. Never even saw pictures. But I -- I did. We grew up together, you know, you with the mother I couldn't leave behind, me with the disaster you created. You -- you little bastard _shit_ , you --" And then his breath runs out and Sonny is staring at him. Huge brown eyes, oddly shocked, oddly _hurt,_ and what the hell. It's like berating a child.

The silence stretches. Ric almost puts down the gun, he doesn't even remember why he's holding it, but he doesn't.

"So easy to hate you," he finally murmured. "Up until it wasn't. Damn you."

Sonny flashes a grin, the one Ric knows, recognizes, has seen in pictures and mirrors all his life. "My apologies."

"Don't piss me off, Sonny," Ric growls.

Sonny shakes his head slowly, his hands still held up, but with lazy insolence. And Ric can sort of appreciate the defiance in that gesture. The stubborness. The hint of desperation. Something burns in his gut and he doesn't know what it is.

He puts the gun down.

Hours later, when he wakes up in the hospital alone, he wonders if it has a name. 'Hate' just doesn't fit anymore.


End file.
